


wish i could turn you back into a stranger

by michelllejones



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, and they were roommates!, oh my god...they were roommates, they're in college and its ruff, trope, who doesnt love a good
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-12 01:20:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12948222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/michelllejones/pseuds/michelllejones
Summary: when richie tozier desperately needs to find a new roommate, eddie kaspbrak takes him up on the offer.but there’s one problem: they can’t fucking stand each other.





	1. desperate times, desperate measures

**Author's Note:**

> it's me, ya girl, with the new girl inspired fic that no one asked for!

He didn’t think it would end this way. 

Truthfully, he’d just thought he was being funny. Well, he _was_ being funny. Hilarious, even. 

His roommates, however, were unfortunately doomed in that they suffered from a lack of good humor and did not find his practical joke nearly as funny as he did. Ian, in particular. Richie Tozier, though, was burdened in the sense that he was undoubtedly the funny one in the bunch. So, he did what he could only see as his duty, and carried that burden for them. For them, he would do it all: crack the jokes _and_ pull the pranks. It wasn’t his fault if they couldn’t take the heat... like that one quote about taking the heat in the kitchen. How’d that go again? “If you can’t take the heat, get out of the kitchen”? He’s not sure who said it first, but it must’ve been Guy Fieri. It sounds like something he would say.

Anyway, Ian could definitely not take the heat. That much was obvious as he screamed “that’s it! I’m moving back with my mom!” and waved his hands around like a madman. Richie held back a snort; of course, that clown lived with his mother. “You win Tozier,” Ian snarled, “I’m moving the fuck out of here by next fucking Monday,” Ian Bakersfield, his now ex-roommate (thank fuck), seethed as he threw his belongings into suitcases and empty boxes.

If anyone asked him, Richie would say he thought it was a gift from above. A blessing from the God he didn’t believe in. He was finally being rid of, what he thought, anyway, the worlds worst roommate. And plausibly, the world’s worst human being. Of all time. Besides like, Hitler, of course. 

He really didn’t think he was to blame. Ian could’ve just laughed it off, sent an email blaming him or a hacker for the Pornhub subscription he sent to the entirety of Ian’s contact list. Besides, it was just a prank, a little jokey joke. No permanent harm was intended. Just some temporary humiliation. No one told Ian to go and get his panties in a bunch. He did that on his own, and Richie would not be held responsible for the way people reacted to the things he did.

Bill Denbrough, his best friend and at times pseudo-mother, was thoroughly unimpressed with Richie’s shenanigans. And though he could handle Richie Saran wrapping the toilet seat before Ian went to use it, switching all of his sparkling water to vodka (that he didn’t think was going to work—but Jesus, is he glad it did. He was laughing about it for a good three days), and he even handled the time Richie moved all of Ian’s furniture into the living room especially well. Richie had managed to get off with an unsatisfied eye roll. This, however—which must’ve been the last straw, according to Ian’s packed bags—sent Bill into a screaming fit. He was livid enough that he didn’t stutter as he screeched at Richie—not even once. Richie was sure he was seconds away from being murdered, and he probably would’ve been if it weren’t for Mike walking through the door. Good, gentle—“knight in shining armor, Michael Hanlon! Oh, good sir, please do save me, I’m afraid our Billy Boy is out for blood!” Richie cried in what was possibly the world’s worst cockney accent as he flung himself toward Mike, who stood still in the doorway, nonplussed.

Dramatically, because that’s the only way Richie Tozier ever did anything in life, he clung to Mike in an attempt to evade Bill’s fury. Mike, being the mediator that he is, put a hand between them and stopped Bill from what looked like attempting to rip all of Richie’s hair out. 

“What the hell is going on? I leave for twenty minutes and you guys try to kill each other? Where is Ian? And why are there suitcases in the hallway?” Mike demanded. The perplexed expression on his face only intensified. He could not, for the life of him, understand what he had missed in the little time he’d been gone. When he left to get more toilet paper from the Walgreens down the street, everything had been peaceful. 

Then, Ian checked his email. 

It was all explained in good time. Richie admitted that he had, unknowingly, sabotaged Ian’s good name by addressing everyone in his contacts an email containing a free Pornhub subscription. He was proud of this one, he really was, even if his roommates were both glowering in his direction during the confession. Again, he plead the fifth. Ian didn’t have to react that way—screaming and flailing about as he threw his belongings together. 

All over a simple email prank. 

And people said _Richie’s_ the drama queen. 

—

“Come on, ’tis just a prank! Everyone gets those virus emails once in a while,” Richie defends himself the next day, waving it off. 

Mike narrows his eyes. “Except it wasn’t a virus, it was _you_ ,” he frowns. 

“Same fuh-fucking th-thing,” Bill grumbles from across the floor. He’s washing their dishes from the “We need to talk about what Richie did” dinner meeting they had just an hour before. 

Believe it or not, it is not the first time they've had this meeting. 

Richie shrugs, stands from the couch and plucks his phone from its spot on the coffee table. He has better things to do than be chided like a child, like attend the party his friend, Beverly Marsh, has invited him to later tonight. She’d been invited herself by some guy in her philosophy class, but (smartly) didn’t want to go alone. Apparently, Richie was the first person she thought of to accompany her. Admittedly, he is flattered, though not surprised. Parties are his expertise, after all. Well—parties _and_ excellent pranks.

“Look, guys, I’m sorry, really. I didn’t think he was gonna get that upset,” he tells them with a guilty smile, and raises his palms to signify his surrender. 

“Whether you did or not, it’s your responsibility to find his replacement,” Mike informs him with pursed lips and a stern expression. “Or you can pay the extra five hundred every month.” 

Richie winces at that. He hardly makes a sufficient amount of money to cover his own portion of the rent every month. Working part-time at the record shop downtown and performing at the coffee place Bill works at every other weekend barely gets him enough to scrape by. Paying an additional five hundred dollars is not an option, and he knows this, but if he’s being totally honest, he isn’t too sure that he’s ready for another roommate. Ian was sent to them straight from hell, with his shiny shoes and stupid hair gel. The trust fund baby with temperament issues. The kid was a walking fucking cliché, and the experience had truly scarred Richie for the rest of his life.

Bill and Mike didn’t care for the kid either, so really, what Richie did was a public service. Honestly, he doesn't know why they aren’t at his feet, thanking him for his selfless favor. Without Ian, they can finally start doing fun things together in the comfort of their own home again. They won’t have to study at the library Mike works at just to avoid Ian squawking at them for being too loud. They won’t have to reluctantly invite him to join them on their quest to watch all eight of the Harry Potter movies when Freeform is having their monthly marathon. And never-fucking-again will they have to include him on their game nights, where he’d obnoxiously claim he knows the most about running businesses as he kicked their asses in Monopoly. 

Ian Bakersfield is the fucking worst, and Richie has done everyone a favor by sending that email. Now, they can live their lives without ever having to hear his nasally voice, or see his stupid face again. He commends himself for that, even if no one else will. 

Now, however, he’s stuck with the responsibility of finding a replacement to fill the empty room that Ian haphazardly left behind. The thought makes Richie beyond irritated, because if it were up to him (and if he had the money), Ian’s room would be transformed into a storage room for his guitars (he only has two, but still—they deserve better than Richie’s cramped closet), his worn music journals, and fading sheet music. It would fare much better in there, in fact, he might even be tempted to keep it clean if given the chance to make it his own. But, much to his dismay, he lives in the Real World, where he goes to school, works part-time, performs gigs now and then, and barely makes eight hundred dollars every month. So, his music room will have to wait. 

He reiterates this to Beverly, who has since picked him up and is driving them to the party he is now anxiously awaiting. The burden of finding a new roommate is a heavy, uncomfortable weight on his shoulders, and he cannot wait to be rid of it for a few hours. 

“Maybe it won’t be so bad, Rich,” the redhead beside him sympathizes in that soothing tone of hers, “you know, maybe you’ll find a really cool guy who, like, loves being a shithead as much as you do.” She’s teasing him, the smirk on her lips tells him so, but he pouts anyway. 

“There’s only room for one shithead in the Tobrolon household, Beverly,” he rebukes with a frown and an all too serious look on his face, despite the mashup of all their names he's just made up on the spot. On any other day, he would be laughing.

Bev chokes back a laugh of her own. “Okay, okay, but I’m just saying. It could be nice,” she offers with another endearing smile. Richie curses her and her good-natured advice and soft eyes. She always knows how to calm him down, and it’s so incredibly frustrating. Sometimes he just wants to wallow in his anger and self-pity. 

“You should just move in with us,” Richie tells her, “Bill loves you enough to lift his strict “no female roommates” policy, you know.” 

“Aw, Rich, you know I would if I could but—”

“—Wes. Yeah, yeah,” he waves her off with a playful eye roll, “I know you’re never gonna leave that beefcake,” he recalls. She’s only told him about the guy a million or so times. They’re moving in together within the next month, and if Richie knew any better he’d think she actually loved the guy. But he doesn't have the headspace to get _that_ analytic right now. 

Beverly reaches over and gives his hand a light pat, but doesn't shake her eyes from the road. “Don’t worry, I’ll help make sure whoever you choose is half as great as me,” she giggles, and Richie does, too. He watches as she pulls up to a very newly built townhouse, and if the cars on the side of the street aren't a telltale sign of a house party gone wild, then the people streaming in and out every five seconds are. 

“Alright, forget the roommate thing,” Richie breathes as she puts the car in park, “it’s time to get figgity figgity fucked up, Bevvy-lou!” He sings this as he stands from the car, stretches his long legs and pulls the petite girl toward him. Laughing, she wraps an affectionate arm around his waist and tells him to shut up as they approach the cobblestone townhouse.

—

At some point in the night—Richie isn't too sure when, considering the alarming amount of alcohol he’d consumed and weed he’d smoked—he and Bev decided that the best way to go about finding a new roommate was by posting an ad on Craigslist. In their defense, they were encouraged by Beverly’s friends, Ben Hanscom and Stanley Uris, who met them there and were just as drunk as they were. So, it was only expected that the four of them would come up with something that stupid.

And he only knows that this is exactly what they've done, because at 7:36 AM his phone rings from beside him, waking him from his drunken slumber. Begrudgingly, he slides his finger across the screen and presses the phone to his ear, answering to a very flustered Bill Denbrough. 

“Ug—”

“You p-put an ad up on Craigslist, R-Richie? Fuh-fucking _Craigslist_?” He sputters in his ear, intensifying the pounding in Richie’s head. God, who has this much energy at _7:30 in the morning_? 

Groaning, Richie pulls the couch pillow over his head and tries to say “What the fuck are you talking about?” but it ends up sounding more like “Whumfuck you taffin bout?” due to the pillow he's just covered his face with. 

“The a-ad on C-Craigslist f-f-for the room in our apartment? I’ve guh-gotten like, f-f-five c-calls from random dudes in the last hour, R-Rich!” Bill whines over the phone, and Richie is quick to lower the volume on his speaker— _too much fucking talking_ , he thinks grumpily. “When M-Mike and I t-told you to f-fix it, this is not wh-what we meant,” he huffs. God, the disappointment in his voice reminds him of his father. And it is definitely too early for Richie to be thinking about his father.

“Umf,” he mutters against the warmth of the pillow and thinks of what to say next. He faintly remembers wiping tears from his eyes as he and Bev typed out the post sometime in the early hours of the morning…

Bill exhales sharply, and Richie can tell he is trying very hard to remain calm. Which is funny, because Bill is easily the most laid-back twenty-year-old he has ever met. With the exception of Mike, of course. However, there is one thing in this world that makes Bill boil over in a matter of seconds, and that just so happens to be the boy he is reprimanding on the phone at the crack of dawn. “R-Rough night?” He asks, but his tone is far from caring. 

Richie sighs “umhum” into his phone and tries to ignore his raging headache. He would do anything for a burrito right about now. A groan sounds from the floor beside him, and when a pillow is chucked at his head, he knows that it’s Beverly. She’s rarely ever angry, but interrupting her sleep was sure to result in decapitation. Richie, unfortunately, knows this first hand. 

“Puh-please just take it down,” Bill pleads, sounding much more relaxed about it than he did just moments before. “I r-r-really don’t want to talk to any more fuh-forty year olds,” he says, and abruptly hangs up. _Oh, thank fuck_ , Richie thinks as he throws his phone onto the ground. Except, it doesn't sound like it hits the ground, and a muffled “ow!” emits from the floor below him. 

Richie pulls the pillow from his face, and winces when he sees that he's nailed Stan in the stomach. “Sorry, Stanny,” he whispers an apology to him, to which Stan replies with a well-deserved middle finger. Stifling his giggles, he sits up on the couch, only to find that there is a girl he does not recognize using his legs as a pillow. He contemplates whether or not shaking her off would be rude, but decides that he doesn't care and does it anyway. Besides, he really has to pee. Or, maybe he has to puke. Or both. She mumbles something about him being a dick, but turns into the couch and says nothing else.

Grabbing his phone from its spot on Stan’s abdomen, Richie steps around Beverly and Ben (they’re cuddling, and Richie wonders if she’s thought about Wes at all since they stepped through the door last night) and tiptoes into the bathroom. It’s littered with red solo cups and some blonde extensions, but he’s got to pee so bad that he doesn't really care what condition the bathroom is in. Remembering what Bill said, he cringes and unlocks his phone. 

“Time for damage control,” he mumbles as he taps on the Safari app and waits for it to load. When he’s done relieving himself, he flushes and sets the seat cover down so he can sit on it. He anxiously taps his foot against the liquor-stained linoleum floor and stares blankly at the screen. 

He’s almost positive that Bill is overreacting, since he’s been known to do that since they were nine and Richie accidentally broke the stylist of his Nintendo DS. One second he was the calm, all-knowing and ever wise Bill he knew and love, the next he was scolding him like a parent does their child. Over the years, Richie’s come to learn that he is most definitely the child when it comes to his relationship with Bill. 

The page loads a minute later—the service in the bathroom proving to be very faulty—and Richie clamps a hand over his mouth to keep himself from laughing out loud. Because there, in all its crossfaded glory, is the post that himself and Beverly had typed out just hours prior. He’s pretty sure he’s still a little fucked up because the title brings tears to his eyes. 

The title of the ad reads: **“Please Help: I need a roommate who can CUM FAST to my rescue. Loft Apartment in Portland, Oregon. SOS PLEASE SOMEONE HELP ME *Rihanna voice* RESPOND PRONTO. OFFER EXPIRES SOON”** When Richie reads it all the way through, he can hardly contain the howling laughter that escapes his lips. The content of the post is nowhere near as ridiculous; it’s just a list of their names, and at the very bottom is Bill’s number. Probably Drunk Richie’s way of getting back at him. He snorts in spite of himself. 

It’s no wonder Bill is only getting calls from what are most likely warranted pedophiles, the title is entirely provocative and nonsensical. Which is exactly the type of thing to attract the creeps of Portland. Again, Richie applauds himself—Beverly, Stan, and Ben, too. Who knew a bunch of drunk and high idiots could come together to create such a hilarious ad. 

He reminds them of it when they're all sitting at a booth in Denny’s a few hours later. It’s a Sunday afternoon, and it’s bustling with hungover people like themselves and stressed waiters and waitresses. The noise makes Richie’s head explode with pain. The only thing that makes it worthwhile are the steaming pancakes on the plate in front him.

He is never partying again.

(That’s a lie.)

“Wait—let me read it,” Stan demands, reaching for Richie’s phone but not before he crinkles his nose at the shattered screen. It’s not all that surprising, Richie thinks, he’s accident prone! “Wow,” he snorts, “I really like the Rihanna lyrics.”

Beverly giggles and covers her face with her hands. “God, why haven’t you deleted that yet, Rich?” She shakes her head. 

Shoveling a forkful of pancakes into his mouth, Richie chuckles and tries to say “it’s too funny to!” but ends up choking on his bite. Ben, who is sitting beside him, gives him a pat on the back and passes his water to him. 

Richie gives him a thankful nod and takes a sip to help swallow the huge bite he’s failing to consume. “Too funny to,” he says finally, now that there isn't food lodged in his throat, “and look! I even found some normal guys who thought it was funny!” He gleams pridefully and shows her the few comments that are from seemingly normal people. 

“Well if they don’t work out,” Stan begins but pauses to take a bite of his hash browns. He’s separated them from the rest of his food and uses a knife to cut them into little sections. Richie notes that it’s a very peculiar thing to do, especially when hungover, but finds it endearing all the same. “Our friend Eddie is looking for a place to live, now that Bev is moving in with Wes,” he suggests to Richie, though he’s looking at Bev, who is shaking her head vigorously. 

Richie glances between them and narrows his eyes suspiciously. There’s something going unsaid. “Who’s Eddie? And why are you shaking your head, Miss Marsh?” He presses and points an accusatory fork full of eggs in her direction. “What, are you embarrassed of me?” He scoffs and places a hand on his chest, feigning offense. 

Shooting a scowl in Stan’s direction, she takes a deep breath and turns to Richie. “No, never,” she reassures him with a soft smile, and Richie knows that she means it. “I just… don’t think you and Eddie would get along, is all.” 

Suddenly, the offense he’d just faked moments ago becomes very real as it bubbles in the pit of his stomach. It’s not that Bev has done anything to hurt his feelings, because she hasn’t—not really, not on purpose. But he’s not stupid. He’s perfectly of aware of what she’s trying to say: Richie Tozier is an acquired taste—certainly not the for close-minded or easily insulted. He is crass and loud and scares most people away. This he knows all too well. It’s been the story of his life since before he can even remember. And he’s hurt by her words or lack thereof. 

“Well, that might not be true,” the voice of reason, also-known-as Ben Hanscom chimes from his right. He’s wiping his hands off with his napkin and practically beaming over at Beverly. Richie wants to knock him upside the head for being so obvious, but discerns that Beverly is as oblivious as he is conspicuous. “They could. I’m honestly surprised they haven’t met, yet. Especially with how much we see Rich these days.” 

Richie nods at that—he has been spending quite a lot of time with them lately. And he finds it entirely strange that they've never mentioned Eddie before now. Unless he just wasn't listening to them before. Which is definitely a possibility. He doesn't have the strongest attention span, never has. His music teacher used to tell him it was a wonder he learned to play at all, with how easily distracted he got during their private sessions. His parents were pretty sure he suffered from ADHD, but never went about getting a proper diagnosis. Figures.

Eyes wide and mouths clamped shut, Stan and Beverly glance between them again, though this time Stan is glaring at her and she is the one surrendering. Their silence is broken when Bev releases a breath of air through her nose. She’s thinking of what to say, that much is obvious. And now Richie is dying to know who this Eddie character is, and why the hell Beverly seems so convinced that they would not get along if they ever met. 

“I can… maybe arrange a meeting,” she yields, “but I’m not sure…”

“It’ll be fine, Bev,” Stan interjects, and then looks to Richie with a grin. “You’re gonna love him.”

Richie blinks and settles into the leather seat. “Oh, I’m sure I will Stanny,” he smirks at Beverly, who is already giving him her signature “don’t you fucking dare, Tozier” look from across the table. 

And God, is he wrong. 

He does not love Eddie Kaspbrak—not one fucking bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _*title from tame impala's "eventually"_  
>   
> 
> a fic where richie DOESNT fall head over heels in love with eddie the first time they meet? 
> 
> must be fake 
> 
> let me know what u think pls and thank u ... this is my first legit work and i am Terrified
> 
>  
> 
> if u have any questions, comments, concerns, or just want to talk 2 me about literally anything u can come visit me @ [eddieklapback.tumblr.com](https://eddieklapback.tumblr.com/) anytime <3333


	2. stupid, chubby-cheeked, wide-eyed baby face

There are not many things in Richie’s life that he regrets doing.

Like, how he doesn't regret crashing his mom’s car that one time he decided that he was ditching school for the day. Or that other time when he forgot to write his senior essay and paid a freshman a hundred dollars to do it for him. Or, more recently, sending a vulgar email to a certain ex-roommate’s entire contact list. Poor decisions, maybe, but worth it all the same. He got to escape his deadbeat town for a while and got an A+ on the paper. And his roommate from hell hit the fucking road.

To Richie, dwelling on poor choices he’s made in the past only wastes time and energy. And he definitely does not have the time, nor the energy, to mope around in his room and mull over all the stupid things he’s done in his twenty years of life. It would probably take him twenty years just to list all of them, anyway. 

That being said, he regrets almost every word, action, thought, and feeling that has lead him to this moment.

He knows now that maybe he should've just accepted Beverly’s apprehensions, seeing as though he has yet to prove her wrong. They've been friends for nearly three years now and not once has she ever been incorrect about a single, goddamned thing. It’s easily the most annoying thing about her, especially since Richie is chronically incapable of being wrong, and refuses to admit when he is. Which, around Beverly, is almost always.

He is also coming to the realization that Stan and Ben had absolutely no idea what they were talking about when they insisted he would get along with Eddie Kaspbrak.

They only met twenty minutes ago, but Richie already wants to punch him in his stupid, chubby-cheeked, wide-eyed baby face. 

Maybe things would've been different if their first encounter hadn't included a spilt cup of hot coffee on a very neatly iron-pressed button-down. Or the screaming that followed. And it is entirely Richie’s fault. They both know it, but, of course, due to his damning character flaw, he will never tell the story that way.

Instead, he will blame Bill and Mike, who asked him to grab them some coffees before Beverly and Eddie arrived. 

(He most certainly will not mention that he, too, ordered a coffee. Because this is, undeniably, all Mike and Bill’s fault.)

In truth, Richie doesn't even drink coffee. Or enjoy it. Like, at all. Coffee, to him, tastes like if he were to burn a piece of paper, take the ashes, and throw them into a warm cup of water. He’s not exactly sure why he even ordered a cup in the first place, considering his indisposition toward the repulsive bean water his friends and fellow millennials are strangely obsessed with. But he orders it, despite all of this, and patiently waits for the drinks he’s bought for him and his friends after. The word patiently, in this context, is used very loosely, because Richie Tozier has not been patient a day in his life.

Which would explain why he grabs the three cups in a hurry, though he really doesn't have a reason to rush. Beverly has yet to walk through the door’s of the Starbucks they've chosen to meet at (Bill refuses to be seen at Monty’s if he’s not on the clock or there to watch Richie perform) and the table they’re sat at is only a few steps away. But Richie is Richie, so he clumsily scoops the drinks into his arms and spins on his heel with a quick “Thank you, Jerry, you God of a man!” to the barista who just raises a brow in return. Though, his spin stops short when he smacks into someone waiting in line to order and dumps the drinks all over a very expensive looking shirt. 

“Holy shit, fuck!” Richie screams, as he watches the drinks fall to the floor and splatter just about everywhere. “I’m so sorry,” he says to the coffee-covered stranger, who is just standing there with his arms spread wide and his lips pressed into a firm line. Richie stifles a laugh, more in spite of himself than at the person he’s just poured about half a gallon’s worth of coffee on, and reaches for a handful of napkins. “Guess I just didn’t see ya down there, Short-stack!” He jokes, and inwardly scolds himself for being such an ass. At this point in his life, he’s learned that it’s not really something he can control. And again, it’s not his fault the person he accidentally drenched in brown liquid was easily the same size as a leprechaun!

The boy in front of him stands completely still, and blinks up at Richie incredulously. “Really?” He growls, and Richie supposes he’s angry, but he looks so adorable with his freckled nose scrunched up and big brown eyes narrowed that he can’t take him seriously. “You spill fucking coffee all over me and then _insult_ me?” His voice cracks slightly as it rises to a higher octave, and Richie, damn him, can’t help but smile. 

“I really didn’t see you there, litt—dude,” He stops himself and tries his best to dry the boy’s shirt with the napkins he’d grabbed. It doesn't seem to be helping much, and by the look on the kid’s face, he doesn't seem to appreciate it much, either. However, Richie is oblivious to this, and continues to dab at the stranger’s shirt. 

“Okay—can you—please, fucking—” the bean water victim spits as he shoves the taller boy’s hands away, “you can _not_ get rid of a stain with fucking napkins!” He explodes, throwing his (little) arms into the air. 

Richie holds his hands up in surrender and takes a step back. He mutters “sorry” under his breath and turns to clean the mess he’s made on the floor, but an employee tells him not to worry about it just as he grabs the cups from the ground. He feels worse about the spilt drinks on the cement floor than he does about the coffee on the boy. 

From the corner of his eye, he sees Bill and Mike, who are standing by their table with a shared expression of either disappointment or humiliation. Richie decides that it’s probably both. After adjusting his glasses, he gives them a shrug and mouths “oops,” to which Bill responds with a head shake and Mike, an eye roll. 

Turning back to the person he’s royally pissed off, it takes him a second to realize that he is furiously muttering things under his breath. He’s not glaring at Richie anymore, but is instead using napkins to do exactly what he yelled at Richie for.

“I really do not fucking need this right now,” he hears him huff, “I’m already running late and now this. Fucking fantastic!”

“I mean personally, I kind of dig the brown stain look,” Richie chimes, “Leaves me with a lot of questions, like: what happened to that guy? Is that a shit stain or was he drinking chocolate milk? You know, it’s like, mysterious,” he says, and promptly thinks maybe he should've just walked away. Because now he’s getting, what is quite honestly, the scariest fucking glare he’s ever witnessed in his life thrown in his direction. He really needs to start considering the whole “I’m an acquired taste” thing…

“...Thank you. I feel so much fucking better now that I know my stained shirt will entertain people,” the guy seethes, his tone eerily flat.

Blinking, Richie offers him another handful of napkins. “Woah, woah, no need to be so hostile, m’lad!” He coaxes in that terrible Cockney accent of his. “I’ll just buy you another shirt at the Walmart down the street or something—”

The boy swats at the napkins violently and scoffs, “A shirt? From _Walmart_? That’s a fucking joke right?” 

Richie is utterly dumbfounded. What’s wrong with shirts from Walmart? “Uh…” he trails off, trying to recall what shops are nearby, “Target, then?”

This earns him a flat expression and an eye twitch. “Oh my _God_ , okay I really do not have time for this—” 

“Who says I do?” Richie challenges and folds his arms across his chest. And maybe he’s just trying to get a reaction out of the guy, but so what if he is? He can’t just act like that and not expect to be taunted!

Another eye twitch. “Just watch where you’re going,” he breathes, “I’m sure your vision is obscured from the clouds blocking your view, but us little guys would appreciate it if you didn’t go around spilling coffee on us anymore.”

“And the little man comes back with a quality jab!” Richie chuckles, pleasantly surprised. “You even got a laugh out of me. What’s your name pipsqueak?”

The aforementioned ‘pipsqueak’ scowls. “Are you fucking kidding me?” Richie most definitely is not. “I’m not even that short!”

Richie snorts. “Oh? My eyes must be deceiving me then,” he gives him a once over. He’s maybe about five-foot-seven—at best—though Richie is not the best when it comes to guessing heights. He spent a year thinking he was five inches taller than Stan when in reality, they’re only two apart. 

“You know what? I’m done talking to you!” 

“No, please, do stay and—” Richie starts to plead, but is interrupted by a voice that sounds strangely like Beverly. 

“Eddie! Did you get the—oh hey, you met Richie!” Richie snaps his head in her direction, gawking when he sees that the voice does indeed belong to the one and only, Miss Beverly Marsh. “What happened to your shirt?” She asks, gesturing to the coffee stained button down when she approaches the two. She scrunches her nose up and looks between them and the floor. Upon noticing the remnants of three spilled drinks, her lips form into the shape of an “o” as she puts two and two together.

When Richie looks back to who he now knows is Eddie Kaspbrak, his expression almost mirrors his own of pure disbelief and maybe even the slightest hint of horror. Of fucking course he spilled coffee all over the one and only Eddie, Beverly’s friend and roommate in question. 

He imagines that if his life were a movie, this would be the scene where the record scratches and the film pauses as he says “yep, that’s me! I bet you’re wondering how I got into this mess,” and then delves into the tragedy that is his life. For a moment, he gets lost in wondering what genre of film he would star in. A romantic comedy? A drama? A dramatic romantic comedy? 

“Funny, you ask—”

“Well, I—”

They start to explain the unfortunate series of events simultaneously, but clamp their mouths shut as soon as they realize that the other is speaking. Beverly looks at them expectantly. 

“I spilled my—well, actually—all three of the coffees I ordered on him,” Richie admits with a sheepish smile. He pushes his glasses up on the bridge of his nose and glances at Eddie, who is still very, very frustrated. Richie wonders how he fits so much anger into such a tiny body. 

Beverly gapes at Richie and shoves his shoulder as she says, “Richie!” She pinches the bridge of her nose and closes her eyes momentarily, inhaling sharply. When she opens them, she looks to Eddie with a soft smile. However, it disappears as soon as she turns to face Richie again. Her expression says something along the lines of _really? REALLY?_ and all he can do is shrug in response. Because yes, really. _REALLY_. 

“Do you want me to go and grab you one of Wes’s shirts from my car?” Beverly’s asking Eddie, and Richie can’t help but let out a laugh. He’s trying to picture Eddie, with his short arms and tiny torso, wearing one of Wes’s t-shirts. Although Wes isn’t much taller than Eddie, he’s got arms the size of watermelon’s and easily fits into an extra large. Richie can only assume that Eddie is all the way on the other side of the spectrum, fitting into an extra small. Beverly smacks his arm.

Eddie huffs and shakes his head. “No, no. I’ll just,” he glares at Richie, “go buy a new one later.” 

Richie winces. “I can give you some money,” he offers with a smile, though it isn't entirely sincere—he’s not so sure he wants to be nice to this Ralph Lauren wearing friend of Beverly’s. 

“It’s fine,” he declines. The glare remains despite Richie’s attempt at a peace offering. 

“Okay, well, um…” Beverly trails off, wide blue eyes darting between the two of them, “let’s go… over to Mike and Bill.” 

_Fuck_ , Richie thinks, because he’s almost forgotten what they all came here to do. He wonders if it’s even necessary, at this point, because if his clumsiness and inability to take things seriously haven’t thwarted Eddie off just yet, he doesn't know what will.

He hopes it was enough.

—

Their interview goes much better than Richie had hoped.

He tries his best to be polite, but Eddie makes it really fucking hard when he goes off on tangents about how many germs float around in one shared bathroom, how terrible the traffic is on this side of Portland (though Richie distinctly remembers him saying something about not having his license), and interviews them on their own living conditions. 

Richie wants to tell him about much of a certified Hot Mess he is, but doesn't when he sees the warning look that Bill gives him from across the table. And he pouts, because he really wants to know how Eddie would react if he knew that he doesn't rinse out his bowls, clean out the sink after he spits his toothpaste into it, or hang up his towels after he showers. He’s sure it would be more than enough to scare him and his perfectly quaffed hair away. 

Although, he seems to be taking to Mike and Bill, who in turn appear to like him, too. They even laugh at a few of Eddie’s jokes, and Richie is seriously considering getting new friends. 

It doesn't help that Richie is a jealous person by nature, so he is more than furious watching this _yuppie_ make _his_ friends laugh at jokes that aren't even _funny_. Like, not even a little bit. _My big toe has a better sense of humor than this buffoon_ , is all he can think every time he hears Bill’s chuckle or sees Mike smile. It’s sickening. 

Twenty minutes pass and Beverly has gone to the restroom, leaving them alone with Eddie AKA the evil mini human sitting in the seat across from Richie. They’ve been throwing glares around the entire time, playing a very enthralling game of “who can emit the most hatred without actually having to say anything?”

Richie just about wants to explode. It doesn't help that every time Eddie opens his mouth, Richie is annoyed almost instantly. Something about the way he sits perfectly straight and says the word “roof” like “ruff”. There’s two o’s! That’s definitely an “oo” sound, _idiot_. 

“Okay, sorry, last question: Can—” Eddie starts to pose yet another question, and Richie isn't sure he will be able to handle it. 

Before he can stop himself, he opens his mouth and interrupts Eddie by saying “well, we have a lot of possible contenders to meet with, _Edmund_ —”

“Eddie,” the small person with weird hair corrects flatly.

Richie blatantly ignores him, “but we’ll be sure to keep in touch,” _no, we won’t_ , “thanks for stopping by, Edgar.” He gives a mockingly sweet smile and waves him off. Even though Beverly isn't back from the restroom yet and he really can’t leave. So he just sits there, staring at Richie blankly, as if he can’t believe he not only cut him off in the middle of his question but forgot his name for the fifth time that day, too. 

Bill kicks Richie’s shin hard under the table and shoots him a harsh glance.

“Ow! What the fuck, Bill? I’m—”

“Ignore h-him,” Bill says to a very angry looking Eddie, “He-he was diagnosed with uh-unbearable asshole s-syndrome as a child,” He excuses with a tight mouth, regarding Richie’s overtly rude behavior. Mother-Bill has made her debut. “We’ll call you.” He gives a polite smile, and Richie can see that his mind is already made up. He wants to pick Eddie.

Unfortunately for Bill and Mike, they still have five other guys to meet with between today and tomorrow. Jesus, Richie hopes that one of them is actually normal. If they choose Eddie and he’s forced to live with another unbearable douchebag with gelled hair, he might just fall over and die.

“I think w-we should go w-with Eddie,” Bill suggests the next day, plopping down onto their faded leather couch, sandwich in hand. “He w-was so nice. And fuh-funny.” 

Mike nods in agreement as he, too, takes a seat on the couch. He has a cup of yogurt and spoon in hand, and suddenly Richie is very hungry. And very annoyed.

He is already shaking his head at the mere mention of the kid. A shudder runs through him when he imagines living with him—he would rather run into oncoming traffic. “No. Nope! Abso-fucking-lutely not, Denbrough,” he says in a sing-song voice as he reaches for Bill’s sandwich. “I’m vetoing that right now.”

Swatting his hand away, Bill breaks off a piece of his sandwich himself and offers it to Richie with an exhausted look. Richie takes it and grins up at him gratefully. 

“Why not? He said he would do chores,” Mike points out with a shrug and spoons yogurt into his mouth. Though, the bite is so big that Richie wouldn't be surprised if there isn't any left after that.

“He was wearing an ironed button-down with fucking Chinos, Miguel,” Richie deadpans, “what sane person does that?” Then he pops the bite Bill offered him into his mouth and licks the excess jelly off of his fingers.

Bill shrugs, shoves a bite into his mouth and says “who then?” around a mouth full of wheat bread, peanut butter, and jelly.

“That Ryan guy was...” Richie trails off as he searches for the right word, “interesting?”

Bill stops chewing and lifts his eyebrows, gaping at Richie incredulously. “H-he has a w-w-warrant out for h-his arrest, Rich!”

“You know I like a mystery, Billy boy.”

“Sh-shut up,” he turns to Mike, “what do _you_ think?” 

Realizing that he is entering dangerous territory, Mike takes a moment to reflect on the candidates they surveyed the last two days. _I will punch you in your gorgeous face if you say Eddie_ , Richie silently threatens. For a moment, he wishes that he had the power to communicate telepathically. 

“Well,” he starts, and looks between the two of them apprehensively, “Eddie was the most… normal… plus, he knows Bev and her friends...” he trails off hesitantly.

Bill points to Richie and shouts “Ha!” triumphantly. 

Richie flips him off, folds his arms over his chest and pouts like a child. “I’m living in a box with the hobo downstairs,” he proclaims, standing from the couch and stomping into his room.

“Thank fuh-fucking God,” he hears Bill retort with a lighthearted chuckle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer: i do not support richie's opinions on eddie and his ironed button-downs . my boy likes to be neat
> 
> thank u to everyone who commented on the first chapter, yall r all so cute and nice and i love every single one of u<3333
> 
> and thank u for reading pls leave me ur thoughts i love reading the lil comments ppl read they rlly do make my day :')))
> 
> im rlly excited to get into this lil work of mine and hope u all are too!!! i know the first couple of chapters havent been too exciting, and seriously lacking in the richie and eddie department, but dw i have a lot of plans for my stubborn sons so pls stay tuned folks
> 
> again, thank u all very much ur encouraging words are v much appreciated<3333
> 
> till next time!!
> 
>  
> 
> if u have any questions, comments, concerns, or just want to talk 2 me about literally anything u can come visit me @ [eddieklapback.tumblr.com](https://eddieklapback.tumblr.com/) anytime <3333


	3. no diseases here

When the blaring sound of an alarm blasts from his bedside table, he thinks he’s imagining it for a good two seconds. The harsh noise cuts into his dream, and suddenly Bill is there, and every time he opens his mouth the sound of the alarm is all that Richie can hear. And when it continues, something in his brain tells him that he’s not making it up and there really is an alarm going off somewhere. This makes Richie think, still mostly asleep, that it must be the fire alarm or maybe someone’s trying to break in (they don't even have a security system) and he promptly throws himself out of bed. 

He tumbles to the floor awkwardly and bangs his knee against the hardwood floor. “Fuck, what the fuck,” he groans, and rubs his knee with one hand and his head with the other. For a moment, he forgets about the alarm, which is still going off very loudly in his ears, and focuses only on the throbbing pain he now feels in his knee. 

Slapping a hand up onto his bedside table, he blindly searches for his glasses. When he feels the familiar metal of the temple, he wraps his hand around it and shoves the frames onto his face. He blinks a few times, and then reaches for his phone, which he's since figured out is producing the alarm. It’s his ringtone for Bill. 

He glances at the date and time and is immediately pissed off. It’s 11:33 AM. On Thursday.

“You better be on your way to the fucking hospital, Billiam,” Richie huffs into phone when he finally answers it. “You know the rules. It’s Thursday,” he whines.

There are only two rules inside the newly named Tobrolon household; the first being absolutely no shoes inside the house. This was put in place a week after they'd moved in when Richie tracked mud all through the house because he’d stepped in a giant puddle on the way to his car after work and forgot it’d ever happened. Richie could step in a ten pound pile of dog shit and not notice, even if something smelled faintly like canine feces and the obvious remnants of it were on the bottom of his vans. Something about not looking at the ground when he walks and the “not paying attention to anything” thing, he suspects. 

Anyway, Ian threw a hissy fit when he got mud on his Sperry’s and Bill made Richie clean to whole thing up. Then, he banned them from wearing anything but socks while at home to avoid the mess (and Ian’s bitching). Considering they live in Portland, where there’s practically a constant drizzle and mud puddles are everywhere, just waiting for an oblivious Richie Tozier to step in them.

The second and final rule was established by Richie himself: never, ever wake him up on a Thursday. Although it’s more of an agreement than it is an official rule of the apartment. Thursdays are his only day off and also the only time he’s ever really alone in the apartment. Bill has classes from ten in the morning till four in the afternoon, and Mike works nine to five at the library downtown. And when Ian lived with them, he fucked off to God knows where. No one really knew what he did when he was gone—he never told them anything about his personal life. Not that Richie cared to know anyway. He probably worked at some boring bank and went to some boring business classes with his boring rich friends. Whatever it was, it kept him out of the complex until six o’clock, so Richie didn't complain. 

For the year or so that they've lived together, no one has ever disturbed Richie from his slumber. They knew what happened if they woke him up—death and destruction. He would stomp around and yell at everyone (he felt the worst when he yelled at Mike) about literally anything. ‘Why is there no milk?’ ‘Where are all the fucking spoons?’ ‘Oh my God, Bill, stop moving my fucking cereal boxes! They belong in the pantry!’ He transformed into Shrek and his roommates were the pesky fairy tale creatures pounding at his door. He might as well be screaming ‘Get out of my swamp!’ at them. 

A year or so and no mishaps. No outbursts, no death, no destruction. And no bad Shrek references. Grumpy Richie was successfully avoided. For sixty something Thursdays, Richie slept in until noon, practiced the chords for whatever songs he was playing at Monty’s that weekend, and strutted around in his boxers like the twenty year old free man he is. 

Then Bill went and fucked it all up. 

“I kn-know and I’m sorry,” Bill sighs, and Richie wonders how long his inner monologue took. It felt like minutes had passed. “I need a f-f-favor,” he admits almost cautiously, like he’s afraid to ask.

The apprehensive tone in his best friend’s voice peaks his interest. “Bill, I know I’m ridiculously charming but I’m not going to have sex with you,” Richie teases. He’s lucky Bill isn't there to see the smug look on his face. “We’ve been friends too long.” 

“Fuh-fuck off,” Bill groans, “Eddie is c-coming to tour the ap-p-artment in an hour—”

“Who is coming when?” Richie’s eyes go wide. He almost forgot about Coffee Boy, even though he’s all Mike and Bill seem to talk about these days. Everything is ‘Eddie this’ and ‘Eddie that’. Like he’s the best thing since sliced fucking bread. 

There’s another sigh on Bill’s end. “Eddie. In an hour,” he explains exasperatedly, “M-Mike can’t leave his sh-shift and I have class. And I know you’re guh-gonna be home s-s-so I need you to do it.” 

“Fuck no,” Richie refuses and scrunches his nose up. How dare even attempt to make him do anything on the one day he’s declared as his “do nothing at all” day. “I’m not doing that.”

“Puh-please, Rich! H-He wants to see it before he moves in on M-Monday,” Bill pleads, and he can hear muffled voices around him. He must’ve just left class.

Richie stands from the floor and kicks some dirty laundry to the side. He really needs to start a load of darks. “You disrupted my beauty sleep, Bill. You broke my one rule!” He huffs, and shoulders his phone as he gathers a pile of clothes into his arms. “This is my one day to do nothing, and now you’re asking me to do the one thing you know I really don’t want to do. You should be doing it, you’re the one who wants Eddie to move in so bad!” 

If Bill were in the same room, Richie knows his face would be set straight while his eyes rolled as far back as they could. And if there were anyone around for him to do so, he would bet them on it. “And y-you’re the reason we n-n-need a new roommate in the first place,” he quips in a sharp tone. Richie winces a little. He’s got him there.

“Please? I’ll buh-bring you take out from that Thai puh-place down the s-street,” Bill bribes and now Richie’s being forced to reconsider. He’s never been one to turn down free food. Especially if that food is coming from his favorite restaurant in existence. There’s nothing better than Ike’s Vietnamese Fish Sauce Wings on a cold November day. Especially if those fish sauce wings are free. It would be wrong to turn this golden opportunity down. Impolite, even.

“Okay. I want jurisdiction over everything we watch this weekend, too,” Richie decides, because if he’s going to be in charge of giving Ironed Polo Man a tour of his apartment on his day off, he’s going all in. “That means no National Geographic and no Storage Wars. And absolutely no Saturday Night Live,” he declares, and points a finger at his phone as if Bill can see him.

“What? But J-Jimmy Fallon is hosting—”

“He’ll host again,” Richie shrugs and saunters down the hall in direction of the laundry room. Except, it’s not really a room. Just an emptied out closet where their washer and dryer are hidden behind a rickety louvered door that was painted a horrible red by the tenant before them. Bill calls it an eye sore every time he sees it.

“Fine,” Bill accepts Richie’s terms defeatedly, though Richie can tell he’s doing it reluctantly. Much like everything else he does on his best friend’s behalf. 

Richie tosses his clothes into the washer and leans his elbow against the cool surface. “I’m glad you agree,” he smiles. “You still owe me, though,” he says and then he hangs up rather abruptly, since he’s well aware that Bill was already opening his mouth to protest.

A grumbling noise comes from his stomach, and Richie supposes he should make himself some breakfast. Or brunch, considering it’s already nearing lunchtime. It’s 11:45, and he is still agitated that he’s even awake. Bill robbed him of another hour of uninterrupted, blissful sleep. No amount of Thai food or television time will make up for that. 

He hasn't even had time to really take in the fact that Eddie is going to be there within the next hour. Eddie I-Hate-Walmart Kaspbrak, in all his gelled hair glory. Richie’s face scrunches up almost instantly.

He hasn't seen him since the whole stain incident, and he really wasn't planning on seeing him again until Monday when he signed the lease and officially moved in. Even then, Richie was going to make himself as scarce as possible. Then, he would avoid him at all costs for as long as he lived ten feet across from him. 

It’s not that he hates the kid because Richie is a firm believer in only strongly disliking people and things. He prides himself on being a “hate is a strong word” kinda guy. Too much time and energy go into hatred. He’d rather waste that energy elsewhere, like pissing off his roommates and writing shitty songs. Plus, he doesn't know Eddie well enough to hate him. He has no problem strongly disliking him, though. And he has no problem voicing this distaste, too. To everyone. Except for Beverly, of course, who he refuses to admit was right about them not getting along. They’ve only interacted once, but Richie knows it wasn't just a bad first impression.

No, he and Eddie were not meant to be friends. Not with the way he rambled about infections and chided Richie for his childish jokes. As if he had any say in what came out of Richie’s mouth. As if he thought he could just swoop in and take Bill’s job of reprimanding him. And then there was the whole thing with Mike and Bill. How dare he make his friends laugh at jokes that weren't even remotely funny? Richie honestly can’t believe the audacity Eddie Kaspbrak has, barging into his life out of nowhere and trying to steal his two best friends away from him. And he can’t forget about Beverly, who’s known Eddie since they were in high school and shares way too many memories with him. She’s also obsessed with little Coffee Stain and his barely visible freckles and shiny nose. 

Richie tuts to himself and finally brings himself across the apartment and into the kitchen. He’s not even sure he really wants to eat. Without Mike and Bill there to shove eggs in front of him, he isn't really tempted to make something for himself either. It’s a little pathetic that his friends have to force him to eat at twenty, but sometimes it just slips his mind. Like most things do. That’s why he has to set constant reminders for himself on his phone: take a shower, finish your lab report, etc. Again, he blames the undetected ADHD.

Instead of making himself something to eat, Richie walks into the living room and plops himself down onto their faded couch, his second bed. He rests his head against the arm and leans his phone up against it. He has some time to kill before Eddie shows up, and he doesn't have anything else to do. So, he scrolls through Instagram and Twitter and loses himself in the world of social media. Eventually he drifts to sleep, and forgets all about Eddie and the tour he’s supposed to be giving him in forty-five minutes.

—

What feels like three hours later, a timid knock sounds from the apartment door. Richie only wakes up enough to bury his face further into the couch despite the fact that his glasses are being smushed up against his eyes in an uncomfortable way. A louder, more aggressive knock comes not more than a minute later, and now Richie is awake enough to outwardly groan. He just wants to sleep. Why won’t anyone let him have that?

Groggily, he wonders if it’s just Ian coming over to pick something up that he left behind, and the thought tempts him to ignore the excessive knocking even more. So, he does. For another minute or so. 

It isn't until he hears “Richie, I know you’re home” from the other side and realizes that the voice does not belong to Ian Bakersfield. It belongs to Eddie Kaspbrak. A frustrated Eddie Kaspbrak, at that—he’s come to know that tone very well. Richie hazily tries to piece together memories from earlier that day. Bill called him. Bill told him Eddie was coming over to see the apartment. Richie did laundry. He fell asleep. 

“Calm down, I’m coming,” Richie grumbles as he swings his legs over the side of the couch and stretches his arms above his head. He sets his glasses on the bridge of his nose (cramming his face into the couch cushion pushed them up to his eyebrows) and glances down. It’s then that he realizes he never put on a shirt or pants. He’s still in his boxers, still got messy hair and morning breath. Only briefly, he considers getting dressed, but Eddie is knocking again and muttering something about him “taking for-fucking-ever”, so he decides against it. Maybe, if Richie’s lucky, he’ll scare Eddie away. Plus, he has no shame. The pizza delivery guy saw his ass once. 

When he opens the door, he makes sure to give Eddie his biggest shit-eating grin. “Hiya, Eds!” He greets him and doesn't let his smile falter as he takes in Eddie’s appearance. He’s dressed a little more casual today, with a light blue t-shirt and faded jeans. His hair is a little less brick-like, too, Richie notices. It’s even got a bit of a curl to it. 

Eddie’s eyes go comically wide and his cheeks flush with what Richie thinks is a blush when he sees him. “Um, hi?” He squeaks, practically gawking at him and his pant-less, shirtless state. “Did you know I was coming?” Eddie asks, awkwardly avoiding Richie’s gaze and rubbing the back of his neck. “And don’t call me that.”

Richie ignores him. “Sure did, can’t ya tell? I even got pretty for ya,” he gestures to himself and masks his smug look with a bright smile.

Eddie blinks. “You’re basically naked.”

“I look my best without any clothes,” Richie gives him a flirtatious wink.

Another blush. “I beg to differ,” he snaps, and then gestures to the apartment, “can I come in now?” 

Richie presses a hand to his chest in mock offense. “You wound me, Eds,” he pouts and then steps aside to let Eddie in. 

Stepping in cautiously, Eddie glares at Richie. “I told you not to call me that—God, will you please go get dressed?” He rolls his eyes and folds his arms across his chest. 

Richie holds his hands up in defense and says “fine, fine” and retreats to his bedroom to put on whatever clothes he can salvage from the pile on his floor. He settles on some dark grey jeans and the red Henley he tossed onto his desk chair two days ago. It’s a little wrinkled, he notices this as he pulls it on over his head, but it smells clean enough. If his hair was a mess before, he can’t even imagine what the black clump of curls on his head resembles now. Probably a tangled ball of yarn. Or a bunch of squiggly lines on a piece of paper. 

He walks back out to the living room to find Eddie standing exactly where he left him. If the roles were reversed and Eddie was giving Richie a tour of his apartment, Richie definitely would've snooped while he was gone. Then again, he and Eddie are clearly two very different people. 

When Eddie notices he’s returned, he frowns. Richie snorts. 

“I know what you’re thinking: how does he look so effortlessly handsome? And I have an answer: you’re right.” 

Eddie raises an eyebrow. “That’s not even an answer.”

“‘Course it is. I’m agreeing with you thinking I’m effortlessly handsome,” Richie explains obviously. 

“First of all: I do not fucking think that and I never will,” ouch, “second of all: you said ‘how does he look so effortlessly handsome?’ and then answered it with: ‘you’re right’. That makes no sense,” he corrects with an agitated look on his face.

Richie blinks a few times and then rolls his eyes. “It was a joke, Eds—”

“—Eddie.”

“—anyway,” Richie disregards Eddie’s interjection, “I guess I gotta show ya around the place. So, here’s the living room.” He motions toward the room they are currently standing in.

“Obviously,” Eddie says flatly. 

Richie’s eye twitches slightly. Spinning on his heels, he points to the kitchen. “Over to the right is the kitchen, and Big Bill’s bedroom. It’s the biggest room by far, don’t try to fight him for it. He’ll twist your ear and win,” he warns. His glasses slip down the bridge of his nose again, and he pushes them back up subconsciously. They fall so much that adjusting them has basically become a motor skill.

He’s about to move to the loft when Eddie wanders into the kitchen and starts inspecting the fridge. Richie’s eyebrows recede into his hairline. “Um,” he follows him, “that’s our fridge. 2015 Samsung model.”

Eddie shuts the door and turns to give Richie an exhausted look. “I know what a fridge looks like. I just wanted to see if it was dirty or not.” 

“Oh?”

“Refrigerators are cold. Listeria monocytogenes thrive at cold temperatures. If it’s present, it grows and can cause illnesses. If you had a dirty fridge, you might be at risk,” Eddie informs him in a dry tone, like he can’t believe he has to explain this to someone. Like it’s common knowledge. Richie’s no dummy, he’s gotten straight A’s and B’s his whole life, but he’s never once heard of listeria monocytogenes. Apart of him thinks Eddie might just be making it up.

“Okay… Well, Bill is pretty clean so he cleans it every once and a while,” Richie crosses the kitchen and attempts to hide the stack of bowls at the sink. He’s not prepared to be lectured on the possible bacteria building up in those. “No diseases here.”

Eddie gives Richie a strange look, but nods anyway. 

“Anyway,” Richie pushes himself away from the counter and starts toward the loft again. “This is the loft, we kinda transformed it into Mike’s room, though. Ben came over a while back and helped us build the half wall into a full one—”

Eddie frowns. “You know Ben?” He asks it like he can’t even imagine them being in the same vicinity together. 

“Uh, yeah. I met him when I met Bev,” Richie tells him, “in my Bio class freshman year.” 

A surprised “huh” comes from Eddie and Richie figures he can’t believe that he even goes to college. He probably thinks he’s some junkie who dropped out of high school or something like that. He wouldn't be the first.

The rest of the tour goes much better than Richie expected, though Eddie asks a plethora of questions that Richie tries to answer as politely as possible. They bicker the whole way through, but it's light and Eddie seems to like Richie more than he did last week. He doesn't really snap at him except when he calls him Eds a few times and he quickly learns that he despises that nickname. So, Richie makes a mental note to call him that and only that. When they get to Ian’s old room, Eddie takes a tape measurer out from his jean pocket (“Dang Eds, is that a tape measurer or are you just happy to see me?” “Shut the fuck up. And I told you to stop calling me that!”) and actually takes measurements of the room. And writes it down. In the miniature notebook he also has in his pocket. 

“What are you doing?” Richie asks as he stands in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. 

Eddie sighs and shoves the notebook into his pocket. “This room is tinier than my old one,” he looks around, “like, a lot tinier. So I wanna make sure my stuff will fit.”

Richie quirks a suggestive brow. “Oh, it’ll fit alright,” he sends an obnoxious wink in Eddie’s direction. 

The blush from earlier returns, but this time its a bright red instead of a soft pink. If Eddie didn't look like a flustered five-year-old, Richie might've thought it was cute.

“Shut up. What are you, twelve?” Eddie huffs.

“If you’re twelve, I’m twelve,” he claps his hands together and bats his eyelashes. 

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Anyway… I have to go to work,” he announces. Richie moves from the doorway when he starts to walk forward. “Thanks for showing me around. It’s nice.” 

Richie is almost surprised at how sincere he sounds. He blinks and says, “you’re welcome” as they walk toward the front door. 

He's also a little surprised at how smoothly today went. Maybe it was the lack of hot coffee and brown stains. Or the fact that Richie has noticed that Eddie's bark is far worse than his bite. He might even find it in him to like him a little bit. Though, he’s still not sure how he feels about all the questions and random facts about bacteria and fungus and disease. He still finds that extremely annoying. 

However, the day takes a turn for the worst when Eddie passes by Richie’s room. He forgot to close the door earlier, therefore, exposing his messy way of living to anyone who walked by. It just so happened that today it was Eddie, who was quite possibly the worst person to witness the tornado that is Richie Tozier’s bedroom.

“You… Is that…” Eddie gulps, “your room…?” 

Richie blinks once. He glances to his room. He blinks again. “Uh… yes?”

“Oh my God, how do you live… How do you live like that? Where is your floor? Are those _clothes_ on the ground?” Eddie stands in Richie’s doorway, and gapes at its haphazard condition. Richie doesn't see the big deal. It’s just a little messy. Nothing a good cleaning session can’t fix.

“And it’s so dark. You know, you can get like, Rickets from lack of sunlight! Is it always this dark in here? And is that a plate of leftover pizza—” _Damn, I knew I forgot to throw that away_ , “Jesus Christ, is that a fucking condom wrapper?” _Oh, yeah, that, too,_ “Is that underwear on top of a guitar?”

_More questions_ , Richie exhales through his nose and waits for Eddie to finish his inspection. He’s still rambling about how many germs are probably on that wrapper alone and “God, I hope you at least had the decency to throw that actual thing away.” Little does he know, Richie didn’t even use that condom for sex. He wanted to prove to Bev that he could blow it up as easily as he could a balloon. Granted, they were both high, and he failed miserably. It was hilarious, though. He remembers laughing for a good twenty minutes and crying because of it. 

He watches the whole thing unfold in front of him bemusedly, leans against the doorframe and wonders how long Eddie can go on for. Probably forever. He doesn't really want to test this theory, though, so he says “yes, I am disgusting” monotonously and interrupts Eddie’s outburst.

“I’ll fucking say,” Eddie scoffs.

“Oh, I know you will,” Richie snorts to himself. 

Messing with Eddie is going to be so much easier than messing with Ian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, this chapter ended up being a little over 4000 words and i.. am so sorry 
> 
> consider it me making up for not updating for almost two weeks 
> 
> u are all so sweet and i love reading all of your lil comments!! please keep leaving them!! they mean so much to me and i love hearing all of your thoughts! 
> 
> also ik this chapter was a bit of a filler but the next few chapters wont be so boring , i promise :-)
> 
> again, thank u all for reading and leaving kudos and comments i love them and i love you
> 
>  
> 
> if u have any questions, comments, concerns, or just want to talk 2 me about literally anything u can come visit me @ [eddieklapback.tumblr.com](https://eddieklapback.tumblr.com/) anytime <3333


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